Sunday, July 31, 2016

Hell Is Flipping


We arise through hells, this future bliss, as forgotten by hells; to culture this wealth, the grain of your thoughts, the features of this heart. I’m barely thinking, while fretting this scar—the music blasting;—to offset thoughts—our swan a legacy, our minds a hell-pit. I’ve died in you—eyes swelling with tears, as to rebuke this feeling; and I’ve cried in you, filled with rage, and lying to a psych! But hell is heaven, for one familiar, with nothing but hell; and hell is segue, the motion of its meaning, to side with, Catherine. I’ve broken mirrors, and shattered windows, screaming at reflections. I’ve given up, pulled by midnights, ushered and driven. I loved a scar, the puss dripping, this infected wound. I’ve lied to God—this All Seeing Eye, hiding in wounds. I’m filled with tears, as to love the arts, as filled with Satan; to wrestle and chide, that closer to Christ, as to fall through portals; this trance affect, this mother’s wisdom, this fool-hearted panic; but never again, to love confusion, to rescue a demon; for hell is notions, this bird as shadowed, such wings as flipping. Have we forgotten, the beginning of plots, where one was an innocent dove? I beg this life, for justice this love, to ruin the hells of this dream; as burdened this path, as liquor this math, crashing into imperfection. We know for psychs, but a fraction this healing—incumbent upon souls; and we know for shrinks, as holding composer, but filled with disdain. I can’t but level: the hells are crispy, the tears are brilliant, the past is living; as a product this life—this case of mirrors, to know what he was: this villain of souls, this cold atmosphere, this prison feigning completion; as love was reaching, a sage in a suit, and brave to trespass; where people see, this beige mirage, flipping through hells; as born this death—his mother an omen, filled with evil skies. It couldn’t be—this flex of souls, as God broke the ceiling; but more to hells, this riddled maze, forever at the forefront. We must imagine, this twofold reality, as something ordained.        

I’d Save The Reader Years

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